Wednesday, June 24, 2015

I realized
the other day that I may be the only person left in the world that doesn’t have
his own podcast and is also not running for president in 2016. I’m not sure
what this means about myself. Am I lazy? Not ambitious enough? Don’t care?

If I had a
podcast what would my subject be? My love of cream-filled donuts? I don’t know
if I can fill an hour a week about donuts. Who would my guests be, the Dunkin
Donuts lady?

Once we
got past the fact that she has a dream job though, I’m not sure where that
interview goes. Each week I would need another guest. They would get
progressively worse until around week 8 where it would be just me drooling in a
sugar coma after eating a half dozen angel creams.

About
running for president, I guess this would be the year to do it. There are
already 119 candidates combined with the two parties and that doesn’t even
count the fringe parties like communist, libertarian, Duck Dynasty enthusiasts,
Duggar apologists, the Hipster Beard party and Johnny Depp in his worst role
yet.

And let’s
not forget that all proclaimed candidates suck. I may be the breath of fresh
air this country needs. Well, maybe not fresh air. More like the slightly stale
air that escapes when you open a closet door for the first time in months, which is still better than the “just down the road from
the industrial pig farm” air that the other candidates are giving off.

So I guess
if I want to conform I need to get the “Donut Hole in My Soul” podcast started
and fill out the paperwork to declare as a candidate for president. I will be
my own guest one week on the show so I can lob softball questions at myself
about my campaign. I’ll lay out the tenets of my job creation program that is
essentially building more donut factories. As podcast host I will warn myself
about the health implications of this plan and as a presidential candidate I
will speak eloquently for 20 minutes without coming close to the subject at
hand. I will then kiss my own ass, sign off for the day and take a nap.

Monday, June 22, 2015

“It was
Jessie’s cousin’s girlfriend’s babysitter, that’s who gave me this recipe. I
knew I’d think of it eventually.”

Matilda
went back to mixing her ingredients in her favorite ceramic bowl, a tune
humming between her lips. Her husband Lionel sat at the dinner table sipping a
beer, looking confused. He turned to his wife.

“Where did
you meet this woman?”

“At the
carnival last week, remember? You were working late so I went with Sheryl, Dan,
Hank and his wife’s nephew’s chiropodist’s daughter’s vet.”

“Ok,”
Lionel muttered. “But . . . but how did you meet the woman with the recipe?”

“We were
on the merry-go-round talking when I was tapped on the shoulder by an elderly
lady who turned out to be my great-Aunt Sylvia’s second husband’s
granddaughter’s best friend’s niece’s step-brother’s dance instructor’s
mother.”

“She was
telling us a story about when Gabe got out of the army. He went to Vegas with
some friends and met Wayne Newton’s manicurist’s daughter’s teacher’s third
wife’s second ex-husband’s pastor’s great-Uncle’s flying instructor’s
girl-friend’s high-school classmate’s cellmate’s sister’s pot dealer’s brother.
Can you imagine meeting a celebrity like that?”

“Yeah,
sure. But what about . . .”

“Oh,
right, the recipe. It turns out the pot dealer’s brother moved here a few years
ago. He met my friend Jessie’s cousin and they started a band together, The
Neighbor’s Squirrel’s Nuts. One night while playing at that bar on route 46, Gary’s Guns, Groupies and Guacamole,
Jessie’s cousin’s girlfriend brought along the woman who babysits for her and
also Mrs. Thompson’s son’s shop teacher’s on-line girlfriend’s psychologist’s
heavily medicated soon-to-be ex-wife.”

“I need
another beer.”

“The pot
dealer’s brother and the babysitter hit it off and started dating. That night I
went to the carnival they had intended to stay in and watch a movie on Netflix
but the babysitter got a phone call from her sister’s brother-in-law’s
step-daughter’s nephew’s volleyball coach’s private detective’s father’s
bookie’s wife’s neighbor’s goddaughter’s fiancé’s mother’s dentist’s
dominatrix’s son’s classmate’s brother’s parole officer’s boss’s mistress’s
nanny’s ex-con ex-husband’s ex-wife’s ex-best friend’s ex-boyfriend’s sister
and were invited to the carnival.”

“Holy
shit,” Lionel said, his hand slapping his forehead.

“We met
them in front of the fried pickle stand, got to talking and I mentioned I was
looking for a good casserole recipe.”

“Don’t
care anymore,” Lionel said.

“She put
my email address into her phone and a few days later sent me this recipe.”

“Beer.
Need beer.”

“She told
me she found it in a magazine from a high school classmate’s brother’s
daughter’s son’s cat’s vet’s office. She also said . . .”